


A New Home

by Missilestorm



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 09:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missilestorm/pseuds/Missilestorm
Summary: A take on the aftermath of Protect Clan Lavellan.





	A New Home

Mahanon is trying on suits for the ball when the news arrives.

Leliana pulls him to the back of the room and delivers it in her to-the-point way, her hand at his shoulder and the report in her hand. Her eyes soften as he looks away from her and down, the air leaving him.

She grasps his shoulder tighter and he finally meets her gaze. Her words are hushed, tinged with a pain born from empathy. “We are all here for you. Know that.” She lets him leave after he shakily nods and staggers from her grasp.

_I killed them. They’re all gone._

He is thankfully spared any interruption as he makes his way to his quarters. He stumbles into his room, his mind tripping over itself, his vision swaying. He slowly makes his way up the stairs, focusing more than necessary on each step. As he reaches the crest, his gaze falls upon Dorian browsing his book collection.

Dorian quickly turns and offers a smile. “Oh, I didn’t know you were going to be back this early. I’ve gotten started with organizing -”

“Dorian, I just -” Mahanon’s voice wavers, cracking at the end as he met Dorian’s eyes. “I want to be alone. Please.”

Dorian looks at him fully, taking in his haggard expression. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

Mahanon closes his eyes and grits his teeth. _This isn’t fair._ The room is silent for a few moments, save for Mahanon’s serrated breaths.

He doesn’t realize that Dorian has stepped so far forward until he feels his hands on his shoulders. Mahanon jumps a bit and looks up, slate meeting cognac. Dorian takes only a moment to take in his expression before guiding him toward the couch lining the banister, sitting him down.

Dorian then removes his hands from Mahanon and strides toward the door. Mahanon draws in a quick breath.

“Wait.” Dorian pauses at the steps. “I didn’t mean it.” A few tears escape, hastily rubbed away with the sleeve of his ballroom gown. “Please - please stay.”

Dorian pauses, takes the few steps to Mahanon, and kneels to eye level with him. He reaches for Mahanon’s hands, grasping them in his own. “I am not going anywhere, only sending for something to eat.” He lets one hand go to trace the fine lines of Mahanon’s markings, wiping tears away. “You cannot be rid of me that easily.” His eyes are speckled with teasing mirth, shrouding the concern in his posture and pursed lips.

Mahanon lets out a watery laugh, squeezing Dorian’s hand tighter before letting go. He listens to Dorian’s hastened steps down the stairs and his hushed whispers to a servant.

His insides are wrapped in thick, unyielding leather.

Dorian returns, and pauses a moment in front of Mahanon, his face set in contemplation. With a note of hesitation, he toes off his boots and joins Mahanon on the sofa, bringing him into his embrace. Mahanon buries his head into Dorian’s chest.

It takes a few minutes for Mahanon to will himself to speak, his voice rough. “My clan - they didn’t make it.” The first utterance of the fate of his family, the only people he had known until the Inquisition, tears open the ball of _wrong_ in his chest.

“Oh, _amatus_.” Dorian’s embrace tightens around him.

He tells Dorian the details in a detached fashion; the assassination plot Leliana had proposed to get rid of the Duke of Wycome, and how it had all gone wrong. “They were _always_ supposed to be there.” Mahanon pushes himself out of Dorian’s embrace and stumbles to his desk. His hasty rummaging is punctuated by the slam of a drawer as he locates the prior Lavellan report. His eyes dart over the parchment, scanning over and over. He roughly rubs at his eyes in an effort to make the words before him stop swimming.

“If I had just _listened_ to Josie -” he stops. “Why _mine._ Of all the -” he swallows, going silent.

Dorian’s concerned gaze follows his pacing. “You cannot blame yourself for this.”

“Then _who can I blame.”_ Mahanon seethes, face contorting into a snarl. “I would like _names_ of anyone who is more responsible than me for this.”

“Alright.” Dorian stands up, and leans his weight against the banister. “How about Leliana? She ordered the assassination of the Duke, which directly resulted in the death of your clan. Can you blame her?”

“She reports to me, and I couldn’t -”

“Couldn’t what? Put that burden on her? She carried it out, she gave her -”

“She couldn’t have known!”

“Could you have?” Dorian meets his eyes, his face pulled taut. “Is there any way you could have known the outcome for certain?”

“No, but -”

“Than you cannot blame yourself. You didn’t arm the guards, and you didn’t guide them to your clan.”

Mahanon’s posture loosens minutely and he turns his gaze from Dorian to his open window. It is near dusk, and the persistent hum of sound is inundated with raucous laughter from the dining halls and nightly activities.

His voice is threadbare and his tenor softens.“I just want them _back_.”

There is a moment of silence, and then a shuffle of fabric. Dorian’s footsteps pad against the stone floor before stopping behind him. The contact of Dorian’s tentative hand against the small of his back causes the coursing waves within him to crest, and his tenuous grip shatters. He leans back against Dorian, hands stifling his sobs. Dorian turns Mahanon around and wraps his arms around him, holding him through it.

Mahanon is barely aware of Dorian carefully guiding them to the bed and sitting him on the mattress. He runs his arms up and down Mahanon’s, and slowly his shaking subsides. He leans against Dorian’s touch, the outlet of emotion leaving behind a drowsy fog.

Mahanon wrings his hands through his now folded and damp ballroom gown, and chuckles ruefully, his voice ragged. “Josie is going to kill me. This fabric was imported and tailored.”

Dorian snorts. “With your propensity to attract bloodstains onto your clothing, if she has any sense she’ll have a few extra.”

Mahanon’s lips quirk, and his eyes droop again. He drifts into sleep to hands sweeping circles against his back and easing through his hair.

\----

He wakes up a time later, throat dry and eyes crusty. He is laying on his side, report crumpled in his hands, his arm asleep. Dusk has long since ended, and the purr of outside activity has ceased. The fireplace has been lit, casting an orange glow about the otherwise dark room.

He casts his gaze to find Dorian on the couch, book in hand, in deep concentration. Mahanon’s eyes soften as he watches Dorian mutter through the text, brow furled as he reads. A parchment and quill is laid against his side for notes.

Mahanon shuffles himself up, his movements drawing Dorian’s attention. Mahanon offers a tentative smile. Dorian smiles back, and asks, “Sleep well?” Mahanon nods in affirmation.

He had slept well, and though knife of grief is still sharp, he feels a bit clearer.

Dorian gathers his things and places them on the couch, rising to join him on the bed. He sits at the end, near Mahanon’s feet, and absentmindedly traces the wrinkles in the bedsheets. Mahanon sets his head back onto the head of the bed and gazes at Dorian.

This man, who scoffed through the word relationship when Mahanon had first proposed it, who months ago couldn’t fathom romantic happiness for himself, had _stayed._

He grabs one of Dorian’s hands and loops it with his own, pulling Dorian towards him. Dorian looks at him with amusement before acquiescing, crawling up to Mahanon. Mahanon traces his chin before bringing their lips together.

“Thank you.” Mahanon runs a finger over Dorian’s moustache after their lips break, resting their foreheads together. “For everything.”

Dorian’s eyes soften. “ _Always,_ amatus.”

Mahanon thumbs Dorian’s jaw, his eyes misty. “Not everyone would have stayed.”

Dorian’s hand squeezes his own. “I am a sucker for a good damsel in distress story.”

Mahanon’s eyes narrow. “I am not a damsel.”

Dorian’s gaze turns wicked. “Would you like to be?”

Mahanon snorts. “Put that down as one of your bad ones.”

Mahanon smiles at Dorian’s answering chuckle. He goes silent for a few moments, eyes watching the crackle of the fire.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“My people plant trees for those -” his voice breaks. “For those that have fallen. Var Bellanaris is sacred ground, and I have the resources. I haven’t kept to the old ways as much as they would like, but I think they would have liked that. To be among their own.”

“No doubt they would.”

Mahanon lets out a breath. “I should get the request started then.” He makes a move to get up, but Dorian places a hand on his chest, stopping him.

“That is something that can wait until the sun is distinctly in the sky, Mahanon. It’s past midnight.” After a beat, Mahanon grudgingly acquiesces, easing back into Dorian’s embrace.

Dorian produces a book to read over his head. His hand absentmindedly traces up and down the length of Mahanon’s arm as he reads, the room’s silence interrupted only by the crackle of fire and the flick of a page.

Mahanon looks to the books strewn about his room, the tray of food at his nightstand, the comforter placed around him, and the lit fireplace, and sinks further into Dorian.

It won’t replace them, but it has become _home._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> \- Missilestorm


End file.
